Dinner passed without ceremony. Cutlery touched porcelain with soft, restrained sounds. The meal was not silent—only calm. A calm thick with preparation.
Pitaa sat upright, shoulders squared, jaw relaxed. He chose food that was warm and light. Nothing heavy. Nothing experimental. His body already knew: tomorrow the latitude would change, the air would change, the rhythm would change.
"Sleep early tonight, my love," Maata said from her side of the table.
"Of course," Pitaa replied, slowing his next bite.
Kamala passed behind them carrying a large canvas bag. She paused briefly and set it beside the table.
The dining sofa was no longer a place to sit. It had become a domestic transit zone—items allowed near the body separated from those that must surrender themselves to the aircraft hold.
On the left side of the sofa, Kamala arranged the cabin bag.
Compact. Opened briefly. Closed again.
Kamala stood at the far end of the room, reading from a printed checklist. Not a tablet. Kamala always trusted paper more—it felt more honest.
A small saline spray, seal intact.A flat travel cable for European sockets, returned neatly to its sleeve.Sugar-free electrolyte sachets—counted, not stacked.Several single-use insulated beverage sleeves, still empty and flat—slipped in like quiet notes meant to matter later, after clearing every checkpoint.
"Madam, cabin items are complete," Kamala reported without looking up.
"Everything dry. Everything labeled."
"Thank you, Mala," Maata replied.
On the right side of the sofa, the checked luggage lay open. Calmer. Looser. Nothing chased by time.
Three layers of cold-weather clothing were folded again—thermal base layers rolled tight, light insulation, windproof and waterproof outerwear.A thin gray scarf slid into the outer pocket. Gloves that looked "casual but expensive" were left there—their place was never in the cabin.Socks were counted. Then one more added.
"Spare, Madam," Kamala murmured.
"One," Maata agreed.
Maata stepped closer to Pitaa, who was still seated at the table. She leaned in slightly, bringing her face close to his ear—not to whisper, just close enough to disrupt concentration.
"If you're tired, say so," she said teasingly, as if testing his discipline.
Kamala zipped the Rimowa suitcase shut.
The clean sound was like a weapon being locked.
Maata glanced briefly. She stood behind Pitaa's chair—too close for mere supervision. Her hands dropped to massage his shoulders—not pressing, just ensuring blood flow remained steady.
"You remember the nasal spray?" she asked softly.
"I remember."
She kissed his cheek from behind.
"The small one."
Pitaa took a short breath. His focus faltered for half a second.
Kamala, as if reading the situation without looking, moved the portable humidifier from the bag to the side table. Plugged it in briefly. Checked the light. Unplugged it again.
Maata nodded without turning. Her hands remained on Pitaa's shoulders, fingers now moving slightly—almost imperceptible, but enough.
"Did you take your vitamins this afternoon?" she asked.
Pitaa nodded.
"Two?"
"Two."
Maata smiled faintly. A smile that didn't reach her eyes—more like a system log confirming normal operation. She shifted her fingers, brushing briefly over Pitaa's neck, as if measuring something.
"The neck loses immunity quickly," she said casually.
"Make sure this area stays protected."
Pitaa was about to respond when Kamala interjected with perfectly timed professionalism.
"Touchscreen gloves are in the outer pocket, Madam," she reported.
"Shoes are not new. The old pair. Anti-slip."
"Good," Maata replied.
She bent slightly now, her face level with Pitaa's. The distance changed the air between them.
"Don't attend every dinner," she said quietly.
"There will be a few hours for silence. No meetings. No people."
Pitaa looked at her.
"Ma—"
"Listen first," Maata cut in gently, but without room for refusal.
"You're going there to save the world. But it means nothing if you don't come home alive."
Kamala closed the bags. Neat. Silent. As if the ritual was complete.
Maata straightened. Her slender yet strong fingers pressed at the base of Pitaa's neck—the point where all digital-world tension gathered. The sandalwood aroma from her hands crept in, attempting to breach Pitaa's defenses.
Pitaa closed his eyes. Maata's touch was the only system update he needed. She knew it. She was mapping his body, marking every inch before the outside world claimed him.
"And don't forget," Maata whispered at his ear, her breath warm against the cold AC air.
"Cold weather makes people crave spicy food. That's a trap. I don't like my favorite belly shrinking."
Pitaa let out a silent laugh.
"Noted."
Maata smiled and continued the massage.
After dinner, Pitaa wiped his hands with a cloth napkin and leaned back. He didn't stand. A blue glow from an encrypted hologram channel lit softly as Maata's thumb continued its slow work on his shoulder.
"Kavya. Status."
No small talk. No greeting.
"Sir," Kavya replied calmly—not ready, but already there.
"Travel stack separated. Devices air-gapped. Personal accounts frozen. Dual locks on core files. Local driver cleared Tier-1 background check. Hotel swept—mid-level floor, emergency stair corridor. Silent mode activates daily upon arrival."
"Good."
The call ended.
Maata shifted the pressure—from shoulder to temple—lingering slightly longer than necessary. Pitaa inhaled, suppressing a smile that never fully formed.
The second call was made without looking at the screen.
"Keller."
The voice on the other end was heavier. Balanced.
"It's still night here."
"Still works," Pitaa replied.
"Our agenda is closed," Keller said.
"No stage. We enter through the technical route. Two sessions. Focus on interoperability and risk."
"That's what I want," Pitaa said.
"No public statement."
"Good."
A brief pause—the kind used for calculation, not doubt.
"Some parties want to add dinners."
Pitaa shook his head slightly—the movement immediately registered under Maata's fingers.
"No," he said lightly.
"I'm there to work."
Keller chuckled briefly.
"You're always like this."
"And you always agree," Pitaa replied.
"Only when it makes sense," Keller said.
"This time, it does."
Pitaa closed the channel and placed the device neatly at the edge of the side table—a habit that surfaced whenever he was about to take control of something. Maata leaned in again, lips nearly brushing his ear—close enough to disrupt his breathing.
"Done?" she asked lightly—too lightly.
Pitaa didn't answer immediately. Instead, he closed his fingers slowly around Maata's wrist—testing, precise—like checking temperature before touching fire.
Maata stopped laughing.
A subtle shift followed: her shoulders lowered, her breath changed. She didn't pull her hand away. She let it stay.
Pitaa stepped half a pace closer. Not enough to touch faces. Not far enough to retreat. The distance made Maata lift her chin unconsciously—a reflex, like a body recognizing an old rhythm.
The first kiss was brief. Almost polite.
Lips met, paused, parted.
Maata didn't chase it.
She smiled faintly—the kind that usually disarmed people.
Pitaa returned, closer this time, unhurried. The second kiss lingered, then broke again—just before Maata could fully breathe. The air tightened. Maata drew a short breath, laughed softly, her voice dropping an octave.
"My love…" she said, unfinished.
Pitaa shifted. His body now stood directly before hers, close enough that stepping back felt irrelevant. His hand rose to her waist—still, unmoving—and because it didn't move, Maata shifted her weight closer, as if seeking support already there.
In the corridor, Kamala's steps passed—clean, efficient—then vanished. Nothing in the house changed. The lights stayed dim. The wall clock kept ticking.
Pitaa lowered his head. His lips brushed the skin beneath Maata's ear—brief, precise—and stopped. Maata released a breath she hadn't planned.
At that moment, Maata lifted her hand—not to stop him, not to push—just to touch. Pitaa caught her wrist again, higher this time, holding it suspended a fraction too long.
Silence.
Then, in one smooth motion, Pitaa lifted Maata. Calm. Certain. Her body reacted faster than thought; her arms wrapped around him, her forehead resting on his shoulder, breath uneven and warm against his neck.
Held against his chest, undone.
Pitaa walked toward the bedroom—steady, unhurried. The bedroom light switched on halfway.
At the doorway, before setting her down, Pitaa paused—just a fraction of a second—long enough for Maata to look up at him from too close a distance to feign ease.
He lowered her slowly. The door closed without a sound.
Maata's back met the cool wooden door, but Pitaa's body pressed in—his warmth erasing distance. The air changed—not because of light, but because space vanished.
Pitaa didn't kiss her again. He paused—long enough for Maata to lift her head, eyes dark, lips parted in protest—then his hand rose, pinning her wrist beside the door. Placing it.
Maata's heart beat out of sync. She could feel Pitaa's steady pulse pressing against her wrist.
A small sound escaped her—cut short as Pitaa leaned in fully, leaving no gap, not even fabric-width. His weight was there. His presence undeniable. The wood behind her no longer felt cold.
Their breaths collided. Uneven. Maata let out a broken sound as part of her body leaned into Pitaa's shoulder. Her fingers searched for something to hold, finding his hair, gripping without awareness.
"Slow," she said—but her voice betrayed her.
Pitaa straightened gradually, his lips not seeking hers. He chose each point that disrupted Maata's breathing. Every touch brief, interrupted—as if he restrained himself with the same discipline he used to restrain the world outside this room.
Maata shifted reflexively, trying to create space—and failed. Pitaa followed without pursuit. Without haste. Simply present, eliminating retreat, pulling each breath back toward him.
Seconds stacked.
The clock outside ticked, irrelevant.
Maata closed her eyes, head against the door, breath fractured—warm, unsteady. Her hands moved across Pitaa's back, then stopped, suddenly aware of proximity. A small smile appeared—the smile of someone who knew she was losing and enjoyed it.
Pitaa lifted his face, looking at her for a long moment. Silent.
The kind of gaze that made Maata swallow and still.
He adjusted them—half a step—turning the angle so the wood became support, not boundary. His movements were smooth, assured, as if he already knew this room by heart. Maata followed, her body compliant before her mind issued another command.
And just as Maata's breathing became impossible to hide—
the phone vibrated.
The small sound cut through the room like a thin blade.
Maata's eyes flew open—startled—then she laughed silently. Her shoulders shook, caught between breaths not yet recovered. Pitaa closed his eyes briefly. One second. Two. As if recalculating the world.
Another vibration.
Maata glanced toward the vanity. Her phone screen glowed softly in the mirror.
Pitaa pulled her half a step to the chair, seating her without fully letting go. He stayed close—too close to be called distance—his hand holding her in place, thumb pressing lightly at her wrist, enough to remind her: don't move.
Maata nudged the phone with her fingertip, saw the name, then raised an eyebrow at Pitaa—a mischievous smile, permission not quite asked.
Pitaa leaned in, took the phone from the vanity, and answered—still holding Maata, as if the outside world could only enter through one narrow door.
"Pa! You're leaving tomorrow, right?"
Tara's voice was bright, too alive for this moment.
"I want souvenirs."
Maata leaned one inch closer—enough to disrupt focus, not enough to break the call. Pitaa half-closed his eyes, keeping his voice low.
"What?"
"Specific ones," Tara said, seriously funny.
"My favorite chocolate. Don't get the wrong brand. And souvenirs for the kids at Green Haven."
"Hmm," Pitaa replied, holding his breath. Maata tilted her head, her smile something Pitaa felt rather than saw.
"Pa?" Tara sharpened her tone.
"You're listening, right?"
"Mm—yes." A beat.
"A—anything else?"
"Take care there… where's Ma?" Tara added quickly.
Pitaa met Maata's gleaming eyes.
"Ma..."
He inhaled once. Controlled
"Is asleep."
A fraction of a second passed.
"Very. Soundly."
His focus fractured dangerously. Maata smiled wide, knowing exactly what she was doing.
The call ended.
The vibration stopped.
Silence returned—heavier, hotter.
Pitaa set the phone down, reflexively neat, then turned back to Maata.
This time, without pause.
The room resumed its role as a silent witness—two bodies moving in a frequency they'd memorized over decades.
—To be Continued—